Sheng Fang was sometimes carefree, and other times his heart would shatter like fragile glass. The cafeteria had nothing to offer, and when the little boy merely said he wouldn’t eat—stopping short of adding the petulant follow-up, "I’ll just starve then"—his niece, Zhu Qing, immediately left him behind and went to fetch food from the cafeteria.
Did she even understand the delicate, sensitive grievances of a child’s heart?
The young master recalled how, back in the Sheng household, meals were served only after repeated urging, with servants fussing over him, asking if he was too hot or too cold.
But now? Zhu Qing might as well have written "Eat or don’t eat" across her face.
Too young to articulate the feeling of disparity, the boy simply turned his back to the wall, sulking like the little aristocrat he was. Yet once left alone in the dorm, his playful curiosity resurfaced. He wandered to the desk, touching this and that, eventually pulling out Zhu Qing’s pager and notebook from her bag.
Sheng Fang couldn’t remember how he’d "accidentally" opened the ink bottle. By the time his little heart sank with dread, it was too late. Pouting, he turned around, torn between panic and the giddy happiness of being called by a nickname. His emotions were a tangled mess.
The ink bottle teetered in his grip, a dark ring already staining his small chin. As he turned, the bottle nearly toppled—but in that split second, Zhu Qing swooped in like the heroic lead in a cop drama, deftly catching it before it hit the ground.
"Speed is the essence of all martial arts!"
"You’re amazing!" The uncle’s voice was bright with admiration, sweet and childish.
Later, Zhu Qing cleaned up the mess.
The arrival of this pampered young master had turned her already cramped dormitory—no bigger than a pigeon cage—into an even tighter squeeze. Exaggerating a little, it felt like the air itself had to be shared between them.
Yet the boy, who had never known hardship, adapted surprisingly well. Aside from some initial complaints, he now seemed perfectly content. Even when the fan wasn’t angled toward him, he played on, oblivious to the sweat beading on his forehead.
Zhu Qing tucked the pager away and opened her notebook. Inside, she’d scribbled the number of a witness from the container factory, copied from a locked police file. But bad luck struck—her ink-stained fingers smudged the corner of the page, blurring the digits.
The old case files were under lock and key at the station, and without access today, contacting the witness was impossible.
She called the boy to wash his hands. Walking down the hallway, she noticed that ever since her return, his lips had been curled in a grin, his steps light and bouncy, like a happy little bird.
When she asked, she learned the reason: a sweet misunderstanding.
Sheng Fang had a formal name, an English name, and was even addressed respectfully as "Young Master"—but no one had ever given him an affectionate nickname before.
Now he had one: Fang Fang.
And just like that, little Fang Fang was over the moon.
The weather was sweltering, and the food Zhu Qing had brought back was still warm. They sat cross-legged on the lower bunk, using a small stool as a makeshift table.
Fang Fang longed for hamburgers, fries, and iced lemon tea—but the lunchbox held only simple home-cooked dishes.
Police academy food was notoriously bad, yet to her surprise, the boy didn’t complain.
He ate quickly, cheeks puffed out, not needing any prompting. Even the dry-looking vegetable stems were polished off without protest.
Zhu Qing watched him wolf down his meal.
Maybe he was afraid.
Whenever his young master temper flared, he’d watch her cautiously, worried she might grow tired of him and send him away.
Her mind drifted back to their early days.
The little boy sneaking out alone at night for an adventure, head bowed when escorted home, slipping through secret passages to his lonely bedroom—stubborn but unable to resist glancing back.
Just like her as a child, stumbling through life alone, occasionally pausing when warmth beckoned, only to realize she’d lingered far too long.
Her heart softened. Her hand hovered above his head, then stilled.
"Qing," Sheng Fang turned and said, "This really doesn’t taste good."
Her fingers twitched.
Just as she was about to pull back, she saw him—like Mario in his games—rise onto his tiptoes, nudging his head up against her palm.
Little Fang Fang was triumphant:
Qing patted my head!
...
As uncle and niece settled into a rhythm, life gradually found its balance.
The next morning, Zhu Qing left for work as usual, while Aunt Ping arrived by car to look after him for the day. This was temporary—once the case wrapped up, he’d start school, and their lives would settle into something calmer, more comfortable.
Zhu Qing gave no instructions on how to care for the boy.
"He can take care of himself."
Aunt Ping’s eyes grew moist, and she discreetly wiped the corner of one.
The Sheng family’s young master had always been waited on hand and foot. Yet here he was, just starting a new life, already becoming self-sufficient.
"Don’t forget—we’re viewing the apartment this afternoon!"
As Zhu Qing headed out, her nagging uncle called after her.
"I haven’t forgotten," she replied without turning. "You’ve only reminded me a hundred times."
The nagging uncle shook his head at Aunt Ping. "She’s so dramatic."
The commute to Yau Ma Tei Police Station was so familiar Zhu Qing could walk it blindfolded.
Today, she arrived even earlier, determined to track down the container factory worker’s contact details.
Flipping through the case file, she found the number—but when she dialed, no one answered. A closer look revealed faint, barely legible text at the bottom: it was the factory’s shared line.
After the container factory shut down last year, Zhu Daxiong—nicknamed "Gap-tooth Xiong"—had taken up casual labor at a construction site, thanks to a fellow villager’s referral.
Zhu Qing managed to reach the site foreman.
"You’re looking for Gap-tooth Xiong?"
The foreman’s voice was loud over the background noise, laced with irritation and scorn.
"These old factory workers are slow as snails. Barely get any work done, and now he’s got himself hurt by falling rebar, lying in the hospital calling every day about his medical bills!"
"You think he’s trying to scam us?"
Gap-tooth Xiong was the nickname of the witness from the container factory.
Zhu Qing jotted down the hospital details, phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. Hanging up, she spotted Uncle Li entering with an empty thermos and immediately waved the note at him.
Uncle Li couldn’t help but chuckle.
Young people—always so full of energy. The higher-ups hadn’t even assigned the task yet, and she was already charging ahead.
A year ago, the case at the container factory might be connected to the two recent homicides. Uncle Li and Zhu Qing were assigned to follow up on it. Uncle Li told her to wait while he went to the cafeteria to buy breakfast. Zhu Qing stood in the hallway, holding a stack of documents, and turned around when she heard footsteps—only to find Liang Qikai standing behind her.
"We haven’t had a chance to talk alone," Liang Qikai said. "About what happened at the Sheng family… I’m really sorry."
Zhu Qing remembered. That day, Liang Qikai had been careless, accidentally exposing her suspicions about Butler Cui. His slip-up had alerted the shrewd old butler, who then realized the truth was out and acted without restraint…
In the original storyline, this was how the cannon-fodder female character had died, becoming a white moonlight in others' memories. She could accept this apology.
Liang Qikai waited nervously for her response. Zhu Qing remained expressionless, offering neither polite reassurances nor judgment about the past. She simply acknowledged his apology with a faint sound.
"Let me make it up to you," Liang Qikai said with a wry smile. "Coffee?"
There was an automatic coffee machine around the corner in the police station hallway.
Liang Qikai inserted a five-dollar coin. The machine was notoriously unreliable—colleagues often complained it was a scam, swallowing coins without dispensing coffee. Unlike them, Liang Qikai didn’t resort to pounding on the machine. He took his time, patiently waiting for each step.
The machine rumbled loudly before finally producing a steaming cup of coffee.
"Guess I’m lucky today," Liang Qikai said, handing it to Zhu Qing.
"The AC is cranked up so high, drinking something cold would hurt your stomach," he remarked. "Even when you’re alone, you should take care of yourself. It’s best to drink it while it’s hot."
He noticed Zhu Qing accepted the coffee without a word, only offering a cool "thanks."
Uncle Li was still in the cafeteria, so Liang Qikai walked with her in silence. Then he watched as she approached the counter and asked the cafeteria lady for a full cup of ice, dumping it into her coffee with a loud clatter.
No explanation. No awkwardness.
Her face might as well have been carved with two words:
Don’t bother.
...
On the way to the hospital with Uncle Li, Zhu Qing brought up the case from a year ago.
"The victim, Ma Guohua, was a foreman at the container factory. It was raining that night when he was killed—died on the spot, no chance to even make it to the hospital."
"Ma Guohua was known as a good husband and father—steady, family-oriented, happily married, with filial children. No financial disputes either."
"Back then, we followed every lead, but in the end… the case went cold. It was shelved with other unsolved files in the archives."
Not every case gets solved. Some victims, like Ma Guohua, die without closure.
Privately, Uncle Li was close with Mo Zhenbang, who had mentioned how stubborn this rookie was. But solving cases required more than just passion—relying on intuition was reckless, and idealism could backfire.
Just as Uncle Li was about to offer some guidance, Zhu Qing had already reached the nurse’s station.
She flashed her badge, stated her purpose, and got Zhu Daxiong’s room number in a few brisk sentences.
Uncle Li swallowed his lecture. "Let’s go."
The ward was a six-bed room, each bed separated by yellowed curtains. The noise level rivaled a marketplace, only quieting briefly when nurses scolded the patients—before the clamor inevitably resumed.
Zhu Daxiong lay in bed, his right leg in a cast, suspended high.
His wife, Su Jinhao, dark-skinned and sturdy, hooked her hands under his armpits and effortlessly lifted him a few inches higher.
"Officers, what brings you here?"
Only then did Zhu Qing understand why Zhu Daxiong had the nickname "Gap-Tooth Daxiong."
He was missing a front tooth, and his speech whistled slightly.
"Remember the Hung Kee container modification factory at Kwai Chung Pier Road?" Uncle Li pulled up a chair.
The moment he spoke, Zhu Daxiong and Su Jinhao’s expressions darkened.
It had been a year, but the memory was still fresh.
Many nights since then, the couple had lived in fear, terrified the killer would return to silence them.
Now that the case was being revisited, they thought they could finally breathe easy.
"Did you catch the killer?"
Uncle Li shook his head.
Not only was the killer still at large, but the case might also be linked to a recent string of homicides—possibly merged into a larger investigation.
The officers didn’t share many details, only calling it a routine follow-up on an old case.
Zhu Daxiong fell silent for a long moment before speaking again.
"That night… the rain was too heavy, and the lights in the container yard were too dim. I couldn’t see clearly…"
"Tell us exactly what happened."
"Back then, business at the old Kwai Chung container factory was already failing. The workers all whispered that the boss would flee soon. Everyone slacked off, just going through the motions—no point working hard when the ship was sinking."
"I was on night shift. Like usual, I finished my work and dozed off in a corner of the factory. Around midnight, the rain woke me up. You know how it is—electronic parts can’t get wet, so I had to check."
"I was still half-asleep when I heard a loud commotion."
These details were all in last year’s case file.
Zhu Daxiong had assumed it was a fight between coworkers and went to check—only to hear a heavy thud.
"Brother Hua was on the ground. I heard fast footsteps—someone running toward the back exit."
"By the time I got to him, his face was already purple. There was a deep mark on his neck, like he’d been strangled hard."
"I was still groggy… By the time I snapped out of it and chased after them, it was too late. Didn’t even see a shadow."
Su Jinhao cut in, "Officers, that was a murderer. Thank God he didn’t catch up, or—"
She shuddered, unable to finish the thought.
"In last year’s statement, you said you didn’t see the killer’s face—just a silhouette," Zhu Qing said. "Can you remember any physical details now?"
Back then, the horror of the scene had been fresh, his memory sharper. But the shock might have blurred some details, distorting his account.
Zhu Daxiong frowned, straining to recall.
"It was a man, neither tall nor short," Zhu Daxiong gestured to indicate the height, "about five feet one... not too thin, roughly my size."
A man approximately 1.7 meters tall and weighing around 150 pounds.
That was far too common.
"What about his clothing?" Zhu Qing asked.
Truthfully, she had always been curious why the original storyline labeled this case the "Red Raincoat Serial Murders."
So far, she hadn’t found any clues related to the "red" element.
Until—
Zhu Daxiong stated firmly, "The killer was wearing red clothes."
Uncle Li: "Why wasn’t this mentioned in the previous statement?"
"You never asked!"
"You only asked if I saw anyone at the scene, whether I saw his face—not what he was wearing."
Uncle Li urged Zhu Daxiong to recall any other overlooked details.
"It was raining the whole time." Zhu Daxiong closed his eyes, his brow furrowing tighter. "Heavy rain, dripping into the pool."
That day, Zhu Daxiong had been terrified—Hua Ge died right in front of him. The scene was still vivid in his mind.
But what he remembered even more clearly was the sound of the rain.
Torrential downpour, water rushing into the pool, fast and sharp.
And crisp.
"And that small knife," Uncle Li asked. "Did you pick it up at the scene?"
"It was just lying next to Hua Ge." At this point, Zhu Daxiong suddenly found it amusing. "Last year, that rookie cop even asked if the knife was used for loading and unloading cargo. How ridiculous! It was so tiny—"
He gestured the length of the blade with his fingers. "I wouldn’t even use it to shave."
Su Jinhao, listening nearby, smacked her husband’s shoulder in exasperation. "Watch your tone with the officers!"
Then, with a bright smile, she asked, "Since we’re cooperating so well with the police, do we get a Good Citizen Award? I heard there’s even a cash prize!"
She pointed at Zhu Daxiong’s leg, scolding him for his misfortune.
He used to work at a container factory, but after it shut down, he had to switch jobs. Now, at the construction site, just as things were going smoothly, a steel bar from the crane suddenly loosened. Quick on his feet, he rolled out of the way—only to end up injuring his leg.
Uncle Li chuckled, closing his notepad. "At least he didn’t crack his skull. That’s lucky enough."
"True!" Su Jinhao nodded emphatically. "If he’d gotten brain damage, that’d be even worse."
As the two officers were leaving, they ran into two visitors carrying nutritional supplements at the hospital door.
Zhu Qing stepped aside. Only when Su Jinhao’s loud voice echoed behind her did she realize they were here for Zhu Daxiong.
"Here, take these supplements."
"Don’t rush the recovery—take it slow."
"Smart move, sneaking the foreman’s helmet when no one was looking. Otherwise—smack—your skull would’ve split open."
Su Jinhao and Zhu Daxiong forced polite smiles.
"The helmets were just lying around… must’ve grabbed the wrong one by accident."
"No, no, it’s not like that. Our Daxiong isn’t that cunning."
Outside the hospital, Zhu Qing asked, "Uncle Li, are the foreman’s helmets different from the workers’?"
"Foremen get reinforced PVC. Regular workers get recycled plastic. Higher up, the developers’ gold helmets even have genuine leather neck guards." Uncle Li snorted. "One color, one class. What did you expect?"
By the time Zhu Qing and Uncle Li returned to the station, it wasn’t even noon yet.
They reported their findings to Mo Zhenbang first.
Mo Zhenbang had two statements in front of him—both from Zhu Daxiong, the eyewitness from the original case. "Rainy night… strangled from behind…"
"I checked with forensics. The angle of the ligature marks matches, meaning the height and method of force were consistent. Of course, coincidence can’t be ruled out entirely, but statistically, it’s likely the same perpetrator from a year ago." Zhu Qing handed him the forensic report.
Mo Zhenbang skimmed through it. "Based on the angle, the suspect is estimated to be around five feet one?"
"Zhu Daxiong described the killer as roughly that height too," Uncle Li added. "Eyewitness estimates have margin for error, but since Zhu Daxiong himself is about the same height, his reference point should be fairly accurate."
In the original case a year ago, the police had found that small knife at the scene.
Back then, following that lead had yielded nothing.
"Assuming last year’s case was the starting point for these recent serial killings," Mo Zhenbang mused, "the killer brought this knife to shave off the victim Ma Guohua’s eyebrows—but was interrupted before completing the ‘ritual.’"
"He nearly got caught, so he went dormant."
"Then, a year later, something triggered him again… and he chose another rainy night to resume."
Mo Zhenbang set down the forensic report and statements. "Retrieve the evidence from Ma Guohua’s case."
Namely, that small knife.
After all this time, the investigation was finally making real progress.
A glint of excitement flashed in Uncle Li’s eyes, while Mo Zhenbang remained composed, rapping his knuckles on the desk and shooting Zhu Qing a sidelong glance.
"What are you standing around for?"
Zhu Qing: "I don’t know how."
Mo Zhenbang nearly laughed in frustration.
That blunt "I don’t know how," without even pretending to ask for guidance.
Every last one of them was a headache.
Retrieving evidence required a trip to the West Kowloon Regional Headquarters’ evidence room.
It wasn’t that Zhu Qing didn’t know the way—it was just that newcomers often got tripped up by the red tape of requesting files and evidence. Without the right paperwork, you’d make wasted trips.
Until now, Uncle Li and Mo Zhenbang had always guided Zhu Qing. Zeng Yongshan hadn’t expected to be the one mentoring her this time.
She’d only graduated three years earlier than Zhu Qing—hardly a veteran—but she had no shortage of advice to share.
"Last time, Inspector Huang’s stamp was a bit smudged. Even with the request form, Uncle Zhang wouldn’t release the evidence."
"Luckily, I was quick—hid Uncle Zhang’s reading glasses when he wasn’t looking!"
Zhu Qing smirked.
Probably because the original protagonist was so likable that even after his glasses went "missing," Uncle Zhang turned a blind eye and let her through.
"Evidence room—" Zhu Qing looked up. "This is it, right?"
With the year-old case reopened and Mo Zhenbang’s written authorization from higher-ups, Zhu Qing and Zeng Yongshan went through the tedious formalities before finally standing in front of the steel cabinets.
Each compartment was numbered, storing key evidence from unsolved homicides.
After just a year, the labels on the evidence bags hadn’t faded. Next to the double-bagged item was a forensic report.
At last, they saw the eyebrow razor.
Zhu Yongshan checked the report. "No fingerprints, no fiber residue, no signs of use on the blade."
"Look here," Zhu Qing said, "there's a small line of English letters."
The two female detectives from the Serious Crimes Unit B had completely opposite personalities—one was always reckless, while the other was overly cautious.
Zeng Yongshan couldn't help but laugh at her serious expression. "That's not an engraving, you know."
The recent high-profile "fireplace skeleton case" had involved a ring with English letters carved into it. But the line of letters on this eyebrow razor was different.
"I know… it's the brand name."
"You know about this too?" Zeng Yongshan's eyes lit up, her smile deepening. "Different brands of makeup tools require different techniques. Even cosmetics have their own complexities in texture. Learning makeup is really trendy now—my mom works at a beauty academy and never stops lecturing me about all the details."
Zeng Yongshan and Zhu Qing weren’t particularly close outside work, so this was the first time she had voluntarily mentioned her mother.
Zhu Qing paused for a moment before suddenly looking up. "Beauty academy?"
In the original storyline of this case, Zeng Yongshan's parents and older brother had been brutally murdered.
The narrative never described her reaction upon seeing their bodies—perhaps it was too cruel to dwell on, glossed over in a single line.
But how could anyone reconcile with the pain of losing their family, especially as a police officer who couldn’t protect them? That agony had haunted the original protagonist, becoming a nightmare that nearly drove her to quit the force.
It shouldn’t have been like that.
Zeng Yongshan was an outstanding CID officer, an indispensable part of the team.
"Yeah, my mom’s an instructor at a beauty academy, specializing in makeup," Zeng Yongshan said with a smile. "If you're interested, I can take you to a trial class. Mention my name for a 20% discount!"
"Even something like an eyebrow razor has its intricacies—double-headed, single-headed, I can never keep them straight—" She suddenly stopped mid-sentence. "I’ve seen this brand in my mom’s makeup bag before."
"The killer has good taste," she remarked.
Zeng Yongshan had only casually mentioned her mother’s job and invited Zhu Qing to visit the academy. Though the offer was genuine, she didn’t actually expect Zhu Qing to accept.
After all, Zhu Qing wouldn’t even attend Mo Zhenbang’s rooftop barbecue parties!
Yet, to her surprise, Zhu Qing agreed.
She was actually going to attend a trial class!
Zeng Yongshan blinked. "Huh?"
"When are you free?"
"Let me think… I’m not sure about my shift schedule."
If she remembered correctly, the killer had struck while Zeng Yongshan was on duty at the station.
Zhu Qing recalled the roster—this month, Zeng Yongshan had two night shifts left.
"I can’t remember right now," Zeng Yongshan said. "I’ll check the schedule later and we can set a time, okay?"
Zhu Qing abruptly turned, her high ponytail swinging with energy. "Let’s go!"
Before Zeng Yongshan could react, Zhu Qing grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the elevator.
Dazed, Zeng Yongshan followed, suddenly feeling the urgency.
...
The entire workday was packed with casework for Zhu Qing.
Zeng Yongshan had two shifts this month—one tomorrow night and another nine days later.
Zhu Qing couldn’t be sure which of those nights the killer would strike in the original timeline, but keeping Zeng Yongshan occupied on both dates wouldn’t be hard with a simple excuse.
After arranging their visit to the beauty academy, Zhu Qing glanced at the calendar where she’d marked the dates.
Something still felt incomplete.
Some colleagues stayed late to wrap up unfinished work, but Zhu Qing, efficient as ever, had powered through the day without pause and could leave on time.
As she stepped out of the Yau Ma Tei Police Station, a fleeting sense of anticipation crossed her mind.
Yesterday, Sheng Fang had come to pick her up.
But today, he wasn’t there.
Shaking off the thought, she quickened her pace—then abruptly turned at the sound of movement behind her.
The police academy’s top graduate’s reflexes were no joke; anyone sneaking up on her risked getting flattened.
A little head peeked out, followed by a childish whine. "It’s just me!"
Aunt Ping watched from the side, barely suppressing a laugh.
The little lordling clearly thought he was hiding well, but Zhu Qing had been smiling since her third step.
Aunt Ping handed the young master over to Zhu Qing smoothly, though she hesitated several times, unsure how to address her.
If the eldest Miss Sheng’s brother was "young master," then her daughter would be… "little heiress"? That didn’t sound right—the titles were all mixed up!
As Aunt Ping left, she racked her brain, wondering how she’d address the grown-up "little heiress" in the future.
Meanwhile, Uncle Sheng Fang and his niece Zhu Qing had no idea what she was thinking. The two were being shown an apartment by their prearranged real estate agent.
Agent Wang, despite the sweltering heat, wore a crumpled suit—proof of his professionalism.
Beaming with warmth, Agent Wang shook hands enthusiastically with Zhu Qing and Sheng Fang the moment he saw them.
"See, it’s 5:05 now," he said, flashing his wristwatch. "Let’s start the timer."
Sheng Fang’s top priority in buying a place was proximity to the police station.
Agent Wang claimed the walk from Yau Ma Tei Police Station to the building took no more than five minutes. True to his word, as they stepped into the elevator, he proudly displayed his watch again.
"Five-minute walk," Agent Wang said, gesturing. "Right this way."
He added, almost as an afterthought, that the five-minute estimate was based on the child’s short legs. An average adult could probably make it in three.
Technically true, but the young master of the Sheng family wasn’t pleased. He glared down at his stubby legs, pouting.
"Twenty-six floors total, with a concierge, elevators, and CCTV in the lobby. Security won’t be an issue."
Sheng Fang had told Agent Wang he wanted a modest-sized place—just enough for him and Zhu Qing. Nothing like the sprawling half-mountain villa where shouting from one end of the hallway meant the other end couldn’t hear, nearly requiring walkie-talkies for Marysa.
Agent Wang had followed the young client’s wishes perfectly.
The unit was 1,500 square feet, three bedrooms and two living rooms, fully furnished and ready to move in.
"The previous owner immigrated to Canada in a hurry, so they’re practically giving it away! High-end appliances, top-notch furniture—this price is a steal!"
"Check out this air conditioner—completely silent, cools faster than a freezer!"
Zhu Qing thought of the "heating" electric fan in her sweltering apartment.
In comparison, the conditions here are truly irresistible.
"The biggest advantage of this apartment is that it stays warm in winter and cool in summer. And look here—the windows are double-glazed for soundproofing. You won’t hear any noise from Temple Street at night. It’s quieter than a library."
"Location is definitely the biggest selling point. Just a five-minute walk to the Yau Ma Tei Police Station—convenient for your niece’s commute, and the neighborhood is absolutely safe."
Before he could finish, Agent Wang belatedly clamped his mouth shut.
The little boss didn’t seem too pleased?
Sheng Fang stood with his hands behind his back, his short legs carrying him around with visible displeasure.
Who’s his niece? Stop acting so familiar.
While the little one locked eyes in a silent battle of wills with Agent Wang, Zhu Qing slowly walked through every corner of the apartment.
The wooden floors were polished to a glossy sheen, radiating a warm glow. A large, plush L-shaped sofa hugged the wall, facing a big television. In the bedroom, a solid wood desk stood beside a double bed, its surface spacious and tidy—unlike the police academy dormitory, where writing a few extra lines would send flakes of wood peeling off the battered surface.
Sheng Fang followed his "niece" around as she explored.
Peeking into the bedroom, his little face scrunched up in disappointment. No bunk beds?
The cramped sauna-like room his niece currently lived in had nothing good going for it—except for that bunk bed. No child could resist the allure of climbing up and down, but alas, this place didn’t have one.
As an uncle, he had to think long-term.
Sheng Fang wondered if he could order a new set from a furniture store and have it delivered later.
Lost in serious contemplation, he looked up, ready to discuss the idea with his niece, only to find her already lost in thought.
Zhu Qing stood in the center of the living room, watching the evening sunlight spill into the space, casting warm patches of gold on the floor.
There was something comforting about this place—a sense of stability, as if her drifting life had finally found a place to land.
"How much for this place?" she turned and asked Agent Wang.
The agent tapped a number into his calculator. "Anyone in the know would tell you this is a steal. You won’t find another deal like this in all of Yau Ma Tei—buying this is like striking gold!"
Then, quickly adding, "But the price is negotiable. If you can settle it today, I can get you a special mortgage deal."
Sheng Fang raised an eyebrow.
As if the young master needed a mortgage to buy a place.
"Money isn’t an issue—" The little one waved his hand, but his words were abruptly cut off. "Mmph?"
Zhu Qing, expressionless, covered the young master’s mouth.
Now was not the time for rich-kid theatrics.
Who buys a place without haggling? Was this child born to be swindled?
...
Twenty minutes later, Qing and her little uncle arrived at a real estate agency storefront on Nathan Road.
Back when she was a teenager washing dishes in a hotel kitchen, Zhu Qing had imagined, more than once, that one day she would step into a glass-fronted property agency.
But she never expected that day to come so soon.
And she certainly never dreamed that fulfilling this fantasy would be thanks to a child.
From initial negotiations to intense bargaining—none of it fazed Zhu Qing.
The only challenge? Keeping Sheng Fang in check during the discussions, lest he recklessly threw money around with another careless wave of his hand.
Young Master Sheng was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
He had lived his life in the clouds, utterly unaware of life’s hardships. To him, money was nothing more than an endless game of numbers.
Zhu Qing remembered clearly what the original story had revealed about this little villain’s past.
At that so-called elite school, he had once clashed violently with a classmate. The trigger? The other child had mocked his eldest sister as a "living corpse" and his second sister as a "murderer." In the scuffle, the young boy accidentally pushed his tormentor down a flight of stairs. The school had intended to punish him severely, but his foster family "donated" a sum to placate the board of directors. Even the Social Welfare Department, which should have intervened, turned a blind eye.
In the end, the incident faded away without a sound. The little villain never even visited the injured classmate in the hospital.
So, was money truly all-powerful?
At the critical stage of his moral development, this repeated indulgence gradually pushed the young antagonist toward the abyss.
While Agent Wang stepped out to pour tea, Zhu Qing pulled a blank sheet of A4 paper from the table.
She was going to teach this sheltered young master a lesson—in the most straightforward way possible.
First, the staggering cost of the apartment.
The pen scratched against the paper as Zhu Qing wrote down the first figure.
"Water, electricity, gas bills," she added a second number.
"Management fees, transportation, three meals a day..."
For once, Madam showed patience, using cold, hard numbers to educate the clueless child.
Sheng Fang listened intently, as if attending an economics primer, his head tilted slightly, his clear eyes reflecting the astronomical sums on the page.
"Add all these numbers together—" Zhu Qing punched the total into a calculator and scrawled the jaw-dropping amount at the bottom of the page. "Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?"
"I understand." The little one’s face scrunched up thoughtfully.
Zhu Qing hadn’t expected the child to grasp it so quickly.
She hadn’t even started on the lecture yet.
"So, what should we do?" she asked.
Little Fang tilted his head, took the pen from his niece’s hand, and—
proceeded to black out several zeros at the end of the numbers.
Erase them!
"?"
"This isn’t about cooking the books!"
